


He Made Mistakes

by SpaceNightwing



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, He deserves all the hugs, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda canon? I make it up as I go alone, Mental Breakdown, Mental Issue, Minor Injuries, Sibling Bonding, Sibling fights, Slight swearing, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim is hard on himself, Tim needs a hug, burning building, fanart inspired, fear toxin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 11:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16240787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceNightwing/pseuds/SpaceNightwing
Summary: Batman and Company are out of town, leaving Nightwing and Red Robin to handle Gotham for a night. This should be easy for two highly experienced Bats, right? Well, that depends on how one defines “easy.”Inspired byomgiamwish’s beautiful work.





	He Made Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this took me wayyyy longer to finish than I wanted it to. I’m gonna sum it up to life being crazy and leave it at that. Nonetheless, it’s done, I’m proud of it, and I hope [omgiamwish](https://omgiamwish.tumblr.com/) likes it! Your art is beautiful! Hope this does it justice! (Justice… DC Comics… Justice League… see what I did there??? I’m sorry ignore me.)

***2348 hours, City Hall Rooftop***

 

“You know,” Nightwing smirks, “as much as I love team ups, I can do this one my own.”

“After the stunt you pulled with Baxter last week?” Red Robin jabs back, much more seriously than Nightwing is making the situation to be. “Not a chance.”

“For real? Baxter’s a nobody.”

“Then a nobody nearly shot you.”

“News flash little bro: we get shot at on a nightly basis. Seriously Red, with B and Robin off world, Hood with the Outlaws in Star City, Black Bat in Tokyo, and Batgirl on Watchtower duty, we’re striated too thin to tag-team patrol.”

“Nightwing,” Red Robin sighs. He’s really not sure why he’s being so protective. Yes, Nightwing is reckless. Everyone knows that. He proved that last week when taking down a petty arms dealer named Martin Baxter. Nightwing hadn’t done the proper recon and was grazed with bullets in three different locations. While not unheard of in this line of work, it still put most of the Bat Clan on edge. Nightwing being the acrobat that he is, one graze is noteworthy.  Three calls for an intervention.

“Honestly,” Red Robin goes on, “Just this one run. Crime Ally. There’s always shit happening here. We get though Crime Ally together, than go separate ways. Deal?”

Red Robin watches Nightwing’s face. Nothing gets through the obscured mask, but due to years of training and knowing the face under the mask, Red Robin can see through the glare clear as day; the glare is more for show than anything else. Even though Nightwing and puns together like peanut butter and jelly, he’s not on a night like this, where resources and backup are limited. He’s cold and calculating. All the Bats are. They have to be.

“Okay,” Nightwing gives in. “Crime Ally, then keep coms on.” Red Robin simply nods once in response, grateful for the compromise. “Let’s go to work.”

***

As predicted, Crime Ally is a shit show: muggings, bar fights, shoot outs, drug deals, attempted murder three different times. The amount of crap that goes down in one night in the underbelly of Gotham is sometimes just hurtful. The Wayne Foundation, Meals and Wheels, Habitat for Humanity, and so many other organizations work so hard to hopefully help the lives of those who can’t help themselves. Seeing this repeated crime and pain, night after night, sometimes makes Tim wonder what they’re doing wrong. However, that’s not important right now. They have a job to do.

The brothers take the Ally in stride, working as a well-oiled machine. Nightwing has to admit, he misses working with the Bat Clan. The Big-Bad-Bat himself? Not so much. But he misses the banter that goes with a sibling patrol.

In turn, Red Robin has missed working with someone so similar to him. Yes, he adores the Teen Titans and the work he does there. But there’s just something special about patrolling the city that molded you into your being with the person who created the mantel you started in. To not have to lead a team, but to work in sync, is a feeling he hasn’t realized he missed.

And nationally, it’s only when things are going perfectly when they explode. Literally.

As the pair swing from rooftop to rooftop, BOOM!

Halfway down the street, a residential complex is turning the night into day. A fireball reaches the top of the building and flames lick as the black sky. Smoke and ash envelop the area making even the street a living hell.    

Nightwing and Red Robin immediately swing to a side building and clutch the side, waiting for the initial heat wave to pass. People’s panicked screams can’t even be heard over the roar of the flames, but they do make an effort to drown out noise the inferno. They run every direction trying to wrap their minds around what just happened. What is actually happening. In a single second, everyone within a 10 mile radius loses their label: no muggers, no dealers, no mothers, no children. Everyone is a person trying to survive. Everyone is human.

Except for two vigilantes. While they are human, suddenly they’re superhuman - the only ones with the knowledge and skill to save everyone.

And that’s exactly what they do.

Nightwing hurls himself into a fifth floor window and begins scanning the area. Red Robin does the same with the street level. He wants to get a clear area so people escaping the building don’t get mixed up in a frenzied crowd. He can hear the familiar screams of sirens approaching. He smells the disintegrating wood and feels the heat of a thousand suns burn against the Kevlar suit. The screams and cries of terrified parents and injured civilians burns his hears. But the adrenaline rush keeps the panic at bay. He knows his job. And he does it well.

Nightwing jumps out of a window carrying two unconscious adults and a screaming child on his back with his rebreather in his mouth. It’s hard to tell though the black soot covering his face, but he looks exhausted. The whites of his domino mask are the only things making him look alert.

“Tap out?” Red Robin asked, hoping to give Nightwing a break.

The older brother simply nods. Red Robin shots his grapple hook for the fourth floor and flies through a busted window. The air is ten times hotter here and he has no choice but to use the rebreather. The filter air tastes of plastic and dust, but at least its fresh air.

Red Robin is methodical about his search and rescue. He first heads for the stairs. The explosion would have shut down the elevators, so anyone trying to get out would head that direction – exactly where he doesn’t want anyone. No one has reported the state of the steps, nor does Red Robin yet know where the explosion went off. Judging by the size of the fire already, it may have started in a basement near gas tanks or air ducts. The stairs could collapse under pressure if the explosion came from underground.

There are a few people, mostly grandparents and small children, choking on toxic fumes. Red Robin takes in a deep breath from the rebreather, than passes it around to the people to give them some fresh air. At the same time, he heads for the nearest door. It’s locked, but that’s not an issue. After three kicks to the handle, the door swings open to a living space. The fire is minimum here and the window access the room shows metal outside the sill. Sure enough, it’s a fire escape. “Here!” Red Robin yells back to the civilians in the hall. He ushers the people out the window and turns back into the fire without looking back… or collecting his rebreather.

He rushes along the hall checking every apartment and keeping his ears alert. The apartments are loud with the ramble of splintering wood and drywall but devoid of any human sounds. No screams, no coughing. He hears a dog barking in one apartment, which he ushers down the same fire escape. No one else seems to be on the floor. As he approaches the opposite end of the floor, lungs feeling like sandpaper, something hits the back of his head. The cowl absorbs most of the blow, but the surprise is enough to knock Red Robin off his feet. He feels a sharp pain in his exposed neck, sees a distend silhouette of a large person rush past. By the time Red Robin regains his bearings and is standing, the figure is gone and debris from the ceiling surround his feet. _Watch your head, Red_ , Tim thinks to himself. Not noticing a collapsing building above his head won’t do him any favors either.

After doubling back to ensure the hall is empty, Red Robin copies Nightwing’s grand exit. The vigilantes switch positions, and Nightwing disappears into the third floor blaze. All around, red and blue lights blind bystanders. Potholes have become ponds from firefighter hoses. From the outside, the fire doesn’t look as bad as it did inside, due in large part to the firefighter’s good work. More firefighters carry unconscious and burned people out though second and first floors. Nightwing finally appears for his third floor with an elderly woman in his arms. “Wheelchair!” He calls to a medic. The woman is taken away with a smile of appreciation for the blue knight. Right as Red Robin is about to run into the first floor with the firefighters, a hand on his shoulder stops him.

“We’ve got it from here,” says a deep voice. Red Robin and Nightwing turn to see the fire chief. “You two have done good work. Let us take the rest.”

“Sir, there are still-” Red Robin tries to push, but the chief cuts his off.

“We’ve surveyed the area, double checked every room in the building. At this point it’s just a fire.”

Red Robin sighs inwardly with relief, but his Bat training doesn’t let him or Nightwing give up that quickly. “You’re sure?” Red Robin can hear himself asking.

The fire chief nods. “Wayne Enterprises donated the most up to date reach-and-rescue technology available. We scanned the building. It’s empty. Thanks in large part to both of your quick actions before the fire got out of hand. Thank you for that.”

Red Robin can feel his stomach fill with pride. Tim had helped Lucius Fox develop that tech. It was originally meant for humanitarian aid to scan rubble after bombings in Syria and Yemen. But as the applications were so universal, Bruce had decided to make the technology available in mass, eventually donating it to several police and fire departments around the country.

The two brothers stand there for a moment watching the flames. Then out of nowhere, Nightwing starts giggling. Red Robin gives him a sidelong look. Then Red Robin can’t help it – he’s giggling to. That adrenaline high, that explosion of energy, the knowledge they escaped death – that’s what does it. Life. Death. That fine line that divides your next breaths and your last, they’re both used to playing that line. But being used to that line doesn’t mean being close to it makes it easy.

So they laugh and relish in the fact that they get to go home, and saved some lives along the way.

***

The brothers call it a night after that, a relatively early night in their books; about 2 in the morning. Crime doesn’t matter at this point – everyone’s got a family. And after a city is rocked like that, crime tends to take a back seat. So the boys climb their bikes and head for the cave.

The ride back for Red Robin is… odd. Buildings don’t rush past him the way they’re supposed to. They’re slow and groggy, like they can’t decide if physics should apply to them or not. _Or maybe it’s me_ , Tim thinks. With all the smoke he probably got in his lungs when he lost his rebreather, it’s highly possible that his oxygen levels are low, resulting in vision issues. He puts the bike on auto drive just to be safe and focuses on centering his breathing for the rest of the ride.

“Evening sirs,” says a distantly British voice. Taking off his helmet, Tim can see Alfred standing at the edge of the cave near a variety of medical supplies and holding trays of food. Tim looks over to Dick, who has his distinct _here we go_ face on display. It’s impossible to hide anything from Alfred, even if he wasn’t monitoring coms tonight. He knows about the explosion, so it’s time for Alfred-the-mother-hen to do what he’s good at.

The boys both know there’s no use in arguing, so they both take seats in the med bay. They’re served sandwiches as Alfred fuses over blood pressures, oxygen levels, and other vitals. Sure, they know that their vitals need to be checked, especially after the smoke intake. But there’s something innately childish about being told to do something equating to the limited desire to want to do it.

Alfred clears Dick in a matter of minutes after his test results come back. Tim, however, seems to be having trouble clearing the toxicity test.

“But that makes since,” Tim defends.

“No it doesn’t,” Dick rebuts. “You were exposed to the fire even less than I was. I went into two floors.”

Tim rubs his face into his hands. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hide this. “I gave my rebreather to some people in the building before getting them out. Then things got crazy and I just kind of went back to the job and -”

“You what?!” Dick shouts. “You gave you rebreather to some random person and didn’t get it back? What if you had passed out from smoke inhalation in the building? What kind of rookie mistake is that? What if whoever has it or anyone they know is half as smart as you and does DNA tests on it? What if -”

“What if what if what if! I know Dick, I fucked up okay? You keep saying you don’t want to become the Bat but all you do is act just like Bruce!”

The second the words are out of his mouth Tim wants to take it back. Dick’s look of hurt and betrayal cut Tim so deep, it probably would have been less painful if Dick had punched him in the face. But Tim can’t take the words back. They’re not true per say, but they’re damn near close. So the silence drifts on and on.

“Alfred,” Dick finally asks in a low whispers, shattering that painful silence. “Is it possible the toxicity results are due to smoke intake?”

“Yes sir.”

Dick nods. “Keep him on oxygen. Check it again in thirty minutes.”

“Yes sir,” Alfred repeats. And without a word, Dick takes to the showers.

Tim slumps in his seat with a deep sign. “I screwed up Alfie.”

“Yes Master Tim.”

“And I yelled at Dick for no reason.”

“Correct young sir.”

“And I can’t fix it.”

“Probably not.”

Tim glares at Alfred as the old butler hands him an oxygen mask. “Gee, not exactly helping out the self-esteem Alfred.”

“My apologies Master Timothy. I simply am relaying what I observe to be the truth. Giving your rebreather to a struggling child was a noble action and I will not take that honor away from you, as Master Dick did so harshly. However, such as mistake can have dire consequences. Master Dick, while doing so in an unproductive manner, expressed a few of these consequences. He only wants what is best for you. Having you learn from your mistakes is one way to do just that.”

“But he doesn’t have to act like Bruce to do it.”

“No, he most certainly does not. Here, no more talking.” Alfred hands Tim the oxygen mask and instructs him to concentrate on breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth.

Alfred leaves Tim to his own devices, saying he will check in on Tim shortly. In the time that Tim starts oxygen treatment, physics seem to keep disobeying their laws. The floor seems to slowly creep away from Tim and pool in the center of the cave.  The stalactites far above his head almost seem to grow and stretch toward him in a creepy, monstrous way. Even with the oxygen mask, things are… off?

Not only are physics lying to his eyes, but he can’t settle his mind. He tries several breathing techniques that Bruce taught him long ago. He tries to go into a meditative state, taking the filtered air into his lungs at the same time. But nothing works. His mind is just… not right. He’s forgetting something that he can’t quite place. He’s imagining something that may not exist. He’s, he’s, he’s…

 _I’m fine,_ Tim firmly scolds himself. _You’re freaking out over nothing. Just stabilize you oxygen levels and you’ll be good._

But the paranoia doesn’t go away. Maybe if he could just figure out what caused the apartment explosion, then he could relax.

Tim leaves the med bay in favor for the Batcomputer. He coughs into a test tube and runs the particles in his breath though the computer’s database. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, but maybe his paranoia could be linked to something he breathed in. _Now how’s that for paranoia? Maybe I’m the one turning into the Bat._

The test results come back with nothing unusual: carbon monoxide, nitrogen oxide, oxygen, water vapor, irritant volatile organic compounds, and some slight air toxics. It’s a normal breakdown considering how much smoke he took breathed in.

“I’ll get more answers at the scene,” Tim says to himself. He pulls up his Red Robin cowl and takes his bike back out into the night.

***

The apartment building is still crawling with service workers, but the residents seem to be more or less cleared out, off to Gotham General or family homes. The fire is out, but the ash and air is still extremely hot. While he may have left the cave in a rush, he was smart enough to grab a spear rebreather, which he now grips firmly between his teeth. Breathing hurts, but it’s bearable.

Melting to the shadows, Red Robin finds himself in the basement of the apartment complex, where he suspects the explosion started. To his surprise, there are no fire fighters down here yet. Maybe they’re checking out the rest of the complex?

Whatever the reason, Red Robin investigates the basements boilers, gas lines, laundromat, heaters, and more. He’s looking for some kind of malfunction at would cause a spark to travel up through an entire building. Some kind of building mishap that would… unless.

Unless it wasn’t a malfunction.

Gotham is running wild with people who just want to watch the world burn. What if some psychotic pyromania terrorist was just looking for a good laugh? After all, Nightwing had started laughing after the end of the mission. But if Joker was involved, why hadn’t he shown his hand yet? He likes to play games, but he likes to be the center of his games. Yet, if there is even the slightest possibility of Joker being involved, Red Robin needs to move up his time tables.

 _Think logically,_ Red Robin tells himself. If Jokercaused this, he wouldn’t set off an explosion without reason. He’d leave a clue as to his next target. Red Robin just has to find it.

Red Robin spends more of his time looking air ducts. The explosion did not bring down the building, only set it on fire. This means he needs to look for an easy ability to spread the inferno, but not main support structures. That means air ducts, gas lines, plumbing, electoral wiring, –

Red Robin stops short. If there is one thing Joker likes to mess with more than explosions, it’s messing with the city’s water reservoir. Quickly, Red Robin rushes to the water boilers. Sure enough, under what is left of four boilers, are deep scorch marks. The blast zone is carved into the floor. The plumbing that provides the residents water is blown to bits, and the marks follow the pipes up into the building.

_That’s the clue!_

In seconds, Red Robin is out of the basement, on his bike, and flying to Gotham’s reservoir.

***

“I told you Master Dick,” Alfred says. “I left Master Tim to fetch more food for the boy. When I came back, he and his motorcycle were gone.”

“But why would he go back?” Dick pushes. When Alfred had returned to check on Tim’s oxygen levels, he had found the med bay empty. Upon further investigation, he had called on Dick’s help to locate Tim. They spent little time tracking Red Robin’s GPS and determined that he was heading back to the apartment building.

“I would not pretend to know the mind of a teenage boy Master Dick. However, I would venture to assume that it has something to do with your disagreement earlier.”

Dick pauses. “You think he’d want to figure out why the building exploded to prove a point?”

“What such point, sir?”

“That he didn’t screw up?” Dick all but snaps. He just can't figure out  _why_ Tim would leave like this and his frustration is starting to show.

“Master Richard.” Alfred keeps his voice even and hard. “That tone and accusatory language is unacceptable. He is your kin.”

Dick doesn’t change his approach. What did he do that was so uncalled for? Tim had been _wrong_. “Did he not?”

“Be that as it may, it is insignificant. Master Timothy is still young and looking for approval from his elders, whether he knows it or not.”

“He leads the Titans better than Batman leads the Justice League. He’s well beyond proven himself.”

“That may be true, but he is still a teenager. He is still learning. And, love him as I do, Master Bruce already gives Master Tim enough grief for mistakes. He may not be seeking scrutiny from his brothers.”

Dick tilts his head. “You think I was too hard on him?”

“What I think is irrelevant. What I know is that Master Timothy is alone and possibly not at full health. He needs a hand in whatever his current motivations are.”

Dick takes in his grandfather’s words. Finally, he nods and rushes to the locker rooms to change. Whatever it is Tim is trying to do, Red Robin won’t be alone.

***

Red Robin isn’t sure how he got here. He doesn’t remember getting on his bike, getting into the building, or finding the main reservoir. The roar of the generators almost overpower his all of his senses. His vision has become blurry and he can’t seem to stand on his feet without listing sideways. But most of all, the paranoia has become unbearable. Joker is going to poison the water supply. He’s going to. Or blow it up. What else would he be doing? Why hasn’t he broadcasting his head splitting screech of a laugh through the halls yet?

The searching takes longer than it should. Joker would want to make his grand finally front and center for all to see.

The searching and paranoia seems to make time move slower, which only makes the paranoia grow. Where is that freaking clown? When will the heat of an explosion hit is back? Where is the bomb and why is it so well hide?

Finally, _finally_ , Red Robin finds something that shouldn’t be there. It’s a mess of wires and chips and timers and pressure gages and and and –

“Get a grip!” Red Robin yells at himself, tearing his mask off, and imminently regrets it. Joker has to be nearby. How could he not be? He’d want to watch his master plan in action, and Red Robin just gave away his position. More mistakes. More explosions.

_Not good enough. Not smart enough. Not skilled enough. Mistakes mean death. Mistakes cost lives. Mistakes mean bombs. Bombs mean death. Jason. Jason. Oh god Jason! Not good enough! This is it. This is the end it’s happening it’s_

“Tim!”

Someone is yelling for him, trying to pull him out of his head. Without though, Tim throws himself against a well, arms outstretched.

“Easy,” the distant voice says. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you. You’re okay Timbo.”

“How,” Tim asks. “How do you know me?”

“Tim, it’s Dick. Something’s wrong with you but you’re gonna be okay. Just take my hand. We’ll do it together. Come on Tim.”

“But – but, the bomb. Jason! He’s dead he died the Joker killed him Dick Jason’s dead he’s -”

“Tim! Jason is fine! He’s in Star City with the Outlaws. There’s no bomb. Joker isn’t here, he’s in Arkham. Right now you need help. Just come with me. Please.” Tim takes a moment to get clear vision. Everything is blurry, but through the dark haze he can see the blue bird against the black suit.  He can see the face of his maskless older brother and electronic blue striped fingers. The hand is outstretched. Maybe it could take him out of this hellhole. But the bomb and Jason and Joker and – “Tim,” Dick says again. “It’s okay.”

Taking a deep breath, ever so slowly, Tim takes Dick’s hand.

***

It’s dark. And loud, but also quite. It’s that moment in the morning after a late night that leaves one wondering if they’re awake yet, or if the world just stopped existing. There’s an ever present _thudding_ right behind his eyes, and a dull hum buzzing in his ears. His body is numb, but he can feel soft linens around him and the cold of room temperature IV fluids entering his body through his hand.

Unfortunately, Tim is used to the state of non-existence, all the bats are used to it. Waking up from a morphine induced state comes with the territory of being a vigilante. So while he knows that something probably went horribly wrong, there’s no memory as to what that horrible thing was, or how he got here now, wherever _here_ was.

Tim hates this part. The unknown of what exists behind the protective shields of his eyelids is not something he’s ready to face, but at the same time not knowing is agony. Yet, his pounding skill would rather live in ignorant bliss for just a little longer. That is until Tim can feel something move beside him.

Painstakingly slow, Tim lifts the shields to reveal the world around him. He’s in the cave infirmary, lights turns low as to not to irritate his eyes. Alfred is standing to his right, checking some medical charts. Dick is to his left, shifting in a chair to get a better look at his little brother.

“There he is,” Dick says, a small smile trying to mask the concern that had been there a moment before.

Alfred puts the chart down as address Tim. “How are you feeling young sir?”

Tim struggles to find his voice. His throat feels like sandpaper and it’s honestly just better not to talk. Alfred sees the young hero’s discomfort, helps him into a sitting position, and holds a glass of water to his lips. The cold liquid sends a jolt down his esophagus and he couldn’t be more grateful for the feeling. The water pulls his out of the flog ever so slightly and he’s able to get a better handle on his voice.

“I’ve been better,” Tim manages to get out after Alfred helps settle him into the bed.

“I’d say as much,” Alfred says. “You gave us quite the fright.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Nearly six hours,” Alfred says. Tim’s not shocked per say. In any other life, that’s a normal night’s sleep. In this life, that’s a it’s a normal reset for injury.

“What do you remember?” Dick asks. No use beating around the bush. Time to connect the dots.

Tim takes a moment to gather himself. He realizes he really doesn’t remember much. There was… a fire? No, that’s not right. The Joker was involved. And water. Lots of water. And machines. But not…? _Forget that,_ Tim scolds.

Tim focuses to push the fuzz out of his head. Dick will provide the details. Tim just needs to give Dick a starting point. A real one that actually happened. Dick needs one fact. And facts are easy. After scouring his hazy memory, Tim settles on what he knows for a fact happened.  

“We left for patrol. You wanted to protrol alone because it was only you and me to cover the city and we could cover more ground if we separated.”

“That’s right.” Dick says. “What else?”

“Bites and pieces, but I don’t know what’s real, what’s not, or what order.”

Fair enough,” Dick signs with a nod. “Well, you kicked ass is what you did.”

“I’m in the medical bed with an IV in my hand Dick. That means I got my ass kicked.”

The older brother laughs out loud, but Alfred humphs disapprovingly. He’s never been one for beatdown jokes, not when his family is hurt on a regular bases.

Dick gathers himself enough to carry on. “Well, this time, not so much. Do you remember the apartment fire?”

“So that’s real?”

“Yes. We took turns covering different floors. The fire chief say we saved a lot of lives before the department was able to show up.”

“That’s good,” Tim says mostly to himself. Being in the med bay means getting beat, which normally means being the weakest link on a mission. Hearing that he helped save lives not only fills him with confidence, but reassures him that he wasn’t as useless on the patrol then he currently thinks he was.

“Yeah it is,” Dick says. “You gave a little girl your rebreather. Good thing you did – she would have died from an asthma attack.”

Tim sighs in relief. Then a thought occurs to him. “Didn’t… didn’t we fight about that?”

Dick’s face turns tomato red. “Yeah. Yeah we did. Or, I yelled at you for that. and I'm sorry. I was way out of line. You didn’t deserve that. Sometimes I think I absorbed some of Batman’s mindset when I had to wear the cowl. It’s not an excuse for how I treated you. I can only hope you understand that was trying to protect you.”

The details of the fight come back to Tim. Dick had been worried about their secret identities getting out. He’d called Tim a rookie, essentially called Tim stupid. Tim had said some nasty things in return.

Rather than argue the guilt game, Tim simply responds with “we were both out of line. Let it go.” Tim knows Dick won’t let it go. The guy has a guilt complex almost a big as Bruce's. But it’ll do no good to argue the topic, so they both move on. “So what happened? After the fire?”

“Well, it’s what happened in the building that’s interesting. A bomb had been planted in the basement. It wasn’t big enough to cause maximum damage. The person who set it wanted to get attention.”

“What?” Tim asks, mind racing faster than it should in his hazy state. “Why?”

“Relaxe Timbo. I’m getting here.” Hard as it is, Tim settles down to listen. “The bomb was set by Martin Baxter.” Now Tim is even more confused. _The arms dealer?_ But the look on Dick’s face says he’d rather not be interrupted again. Tim keeps his thoughts to himself. “Baxter needed money, so he agreed to cause a distraction. He set the bomb, then hung out in the building waiting for a hero to show up.”

“But that doesn’t make any since,” Tim interrupts, unwilling to hold back. “Why would someone hang out in a burning building?”

Dick shrugs. “You say that as if agreeing to set a bomb is a logical decision as a source of income.”

“Point taken.” Tim is quite for a moment before asking “Who hired him?” Dick hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “Come on Dick. I’ve been through worse.”

“That you have,” alfred mutters just loud enough to be heard. “Dr. Crane,” Dick says somberly.

“Okay,” Tim draws out. “That makes even less since then Baxter standing in a burning building for money. Bombs aren't Scarecrow's MO. Neither is hiring out his work. He wants to see his madness at work.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Dick continues. “But, Baxter isn’t the toughest guy we’ve come across, and he squealed like a pig when I caught up to him.”

Dick stops to allow Tim to take in the information.

Fact: Scarecrow hired an arms dealer to attract heros.

Fact: Red Robin and Nightwing were attracted to the distraction.

Question: Distraction from what?

“So did Crane attack someplace while we dealt with the building?” Tim asks.

“No,” says Dick. “Crane wanted to experiment his new fear toxin formula on a hero. The explosion drew us close to toxin. Do you remember getting his with something in the building?”

Tim takes a moment to source through the fog. The building, the coughing kids and grandparents, it’s all starting to come back to him. Then… yes.  He remembers getting knocked to the ground and pain in his neck, just below his chin. Then a figure had been there, then it wasn’t.

Tim looks his brother in the eyes and asks, “How’d you know about that?”

“The camera in your mask showed what happened. The ceiling collapsed on top of you and you went down hard. That’s when Baxter made his move. He administered a dose of Crane’s new toxin into your system. The toxin didn’t show up on any of our tests because the computer couldn’t identify the new compounds.”

Rubbing his face, Tim asks the question he knows he doesn’t want the answer to. “So what did that shit do to me?”

Again, Dick is uncomfortable with the question. He doesn’t want to scare his little brother, not more then he has been. But he has a right to know what happened to his body, so Dick pushes on. “The formula doesn’t necessarily cause outright fear like the original, but encourages slow onset panic. It’s like a frog in boiling water not noticing the changes. Your thought process remained your own, but increased at a rate you wouldn't recognize.”

Tim again takes in everything. That makes since considering the paranoia. Well, a level of paranoia above Bat-paranoia. Finally he asks, “So where is the Joker in all of this?”

“He wasn’t” Dick says with fearceness in his eyes. Tim’s heart drops. Dick had said Tim hadn’t been the weak link tonight. But he’d been wrong about Joker, the single most deadly criminal they’ve faced. They cannot ever get it wrong with Joker, else people are killed. Tim was wrong. And people could have died.

The shame of failure on Tim’s face must be as easy to read as an ABC’s book. Dick’s eyes soften. “You’re logic was sound” Dick goes on. “I followed you through process, went through the steps. And because you’re a hell of a lot smarter than me, it took me twice was long to get though. But my conclusion was the same as yours. You did everything right and then some.”

As good as the words are to hear, Tim doesn’t believe them. Where Dick is the queen of the guilt trip, Tim is the king of failure. Fear toxin or not, he was wrong about Joker. He failed to keep a clear mind. He made mistakes. Mistakes cost lives. Every time.

Again, Dick can practically see Tim’s thoughts even though the young boy hasn’t said anything. “No one died tonight Tim. You did everything right. Everything.”

Getting past the lump in his throat isn’t easy. When he does, Tim asks “How’d you find all this out?”

“I followed your lead little brother. Just like I said. After you left the cave, I did what you would do. That lead me to the reservoir. You weren’t the only one there. Crane wanted to watch his formula work. He watched you from the shadows. That’s where I found and beat answers out of him.”

Despite himself, the idea of Nightwing beating the snot out of Scarecrow on Red Robin’s dehalf does make Tim laugh slightly. His sore body doesn’t appreciate the  movement, but it feels good nonetheless. “So you saved me?”

“You could say that,” Dick says looking smug. Alfred lets out a huff of air.

“You know,” Tim says trying to bring his own mood up, “You say you don’t want to be like Bruce, but beating someone like Scarecrow to save a Robin sounds very much like a Batman thing to do.”

Dick smiles in return. “B’s go his issues, but he’s not all bad.”

“No. No he’s not,” Tim responds. He sees Alfred out of the corner of his eye. The man isn’t even trying to repress a smile. Tim doesn't blame him. For all intents and purposes, Bruce is Alfred’s son, just as much as Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian are Bruce’s sons, despite everything. At the end of the day, they’re all family, disfuncional as it might be. Alfred is never going to hide the pride he has for his family.

“So,” Tim says after an easy silence. “What’s the verdict?”

Dick smiles, remembering the old days when Tim was still Robin and Dick was still discoing. At the end of the night, the younger brother would sometimes ask how his patrol performance was, seeking improvement from the original Robin. Dick humors Tim with the old game. “8 out of 10. Flawless deceive work, per usual. Not one causality. Could use some practice dodging falling projectiles.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Says the guy who failed to dodge bullets the other day.”

“My verdict. Suck it up!”

“Alright,” Alfred cuts in. “I think that is quite enough for one night. Master Timothy needs rest. And you have a case file to finish up, Master Dick.”

Dick grows. Paperwork? Nope. Tim laughs at his brothers misery, which is a mistake as the pounding in his head amplifies.

“My point exactly,” Alfred says when he sees Tim’s pained expression. Alfred takes the liberty of putting more pain meds into Tim’s IV. Within seconds, Tim can feel the effects start to take hold. The muscles he hadn’t realized when stiff loosen up.

Dick softens again. “Alfie’s right. Get some sleep Tim.” The chair under Dick creaks as he moves to his feet. Before walking away, he puts a hand on Tim’s foot and looks the younger brother in the eye one last time. “I know you’re going to be beating yourself up about tonight for a while. But you did good Tim. You need to know that. Got me?”

“Got you,” Tim whispers out, too tired to argue. Yes he made mistakes tonight. But he owns those mistakes. And he learns from them, just as every Bat does.

"At least _,"_ Tim says as he falls asleep, just loud enough to be heard by Alfred standing next to him. "I didn’t make the mistake of a disco uniform."

**Author's Note:**

> Check out [omgiamwish’s art on Tumblr it’s beautiful](https://omgiamwish.tumblr.com/) !!  
> Thanks for reading!!


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